


Songbird

by EtherDragons



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mobtale (Undertale), Eventual Smut, F/M, Frisk can't be OOC because Frisk doesn't have a character to begin with fight me, Human Mages, I'm going to add other characters/pairings as it goes, M/M, Slow Burn, Some OCs? I don't know if they'll be around for long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtherDragons/pseuds/EtherDragons
Summary: Despite everything, Frisk fucking loves her job.Working as a singer in dingy little bars in the bad parts of town to make ends meet, she finds herself wrangled in things she hadn't thought would become her life.Also, there's skeleton dick. I think. At some point, probably.





	1. can't stop staring in those evil eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> look at him, look at me  
> that boy is bad, and honestly  
> he's a wolf in disguise  
> but I can't stop staring in those evil eyes

There's something comforting in repetition.

It brings a semblance of familiarity, for one. Like a room constantly in the dark, what might once seem scary and difficult soon becomes muscle memory once one starts walking the same path, over and over. The body eventually memorizes where everything is, the eyes adjust to darkness until it's not even a thing one thinks about. Just one step after the other.

Initially, Frisk looked at the places she was hired to sing at with a kind of displeasure not at all befitting of someone struggling to get started in the first place. They were dirty, seedy, too dimly lit, and the patrons were loud, sometimes loudly violent. The kinds of places she would normally avoid, the kind of people she swore would never be caught dead with.

But her eyes adjusted to that darkness.

The places were questionable, of course, but her employers were nice enough, the other employees even more so. More often than not, cigarette smoke gathered low on the ground like fog, clinging to her skin for days afterwards, likewise with the smell of cheap booze, but she learned how to make it go away, and how to appreciate it when it refused to.

Even the patrons, slowly, became more people than shadows. Some of them were nice, if rowdy and loud, some were quieter, more appreciative of the bands' music, some were a tad pushy — in the end, it all became manageable.

Tonight's bar was her first, and stands as one of her favourites. Just dingy enough to hire a starting singer once their regular got better jobs, just nice enough to have an actual backstage, and some resemblance of a band in the form of a pianist and a guitarist.

The stage is still shrouded in darkness, two employees running around to set up the dilapidated stereo system. Frisk stands in front of a barely illuminated mirror, half the tiny lamps circling around it having gone out before she was first hired, but it's enough light for her to apply her makeup. The rumbling noises of conversations filter in from outside, along with the soft notes of James' piano, off to the side.

Frisk hums, following the tone set by the piano keys, putting down the red lipstick to pick up a brush and run it through her hair. Not much to do there, since it's so short and straight to begin with, but it's part of the routine. Diana passes through, patting Frisk's shoulder with the hand not holding the neck of her well-loved guitar, but instead of doing what she usually does — continuing down to join James and the other employees —, the woman stops, fingers curling ever so sightly over Frisk's bare shoulder.

The bad part of getting so used to routine presents itself — it's easier to stumble in the dark when you're not expecting the one new furniture item.

"Darlin', boss asked me to warn you", Diana whispers, in what sounds like an unsure tone. "We've got some sorta big shot at the audience tonight. No pressure or anythin', just— don't freak out, yeah?"

"What kind of _big shot_?" Frisk's voice sounds too panicked for her own ears, cold sweat breaking on the back of her neck.

Diana pats her shoulder again. "Some big guy from the monster district— hey, Jay, stick 'round, you gotta hear this too", the guitar case makes a dull thud noise when it's put on the ground, as she flags him over with her now free hand.

"I thought this place was off-limits", James comments, with an edge of _something_ in his voice that Frisk doesn't feel well enough to address or think about, not with the way she's fighting to put a lid on her mounting anxiety.

Diana, on the other hand, isn't fighting anything at all to miss the implication of his tone, and takes her hand off Frisk's shoulder to hit James in the arm.

"Fuck, ouch", he grunts. "It is off-limits, though. Never saw any of those freak fuckers around before, you'd think they'd be all over here if they could."

"Yeah, well— Harry said he's gonna change that. Guy's here to scope out the place, 'fore they open it out, so we can't freak out, aight? It's gonna be your fuckin' ass if you do."

James grumbles, something unintelligible, and shrugs. He's halfway across the stage when Frisk finds her voice again.

"If it's— if he's not a human, it's, it's fine", she runs a hand through her hair, brush forgotten on the counter by the mirror. Her voice is still too quiet, too panicky. "Ain't got no problem with monsters."

Diana's look is sympathetic, when she gently pats Frisk's shoulder again. "I know. Because of your brother, ain't it? That's not why Harry was worried 'bout your reaction."

"Yeah", Frisk mutters, her voice steadier by the moment. Thinking of her brother helps. The calming presence of him in her thoughts helps. She takes a steadying breath, raises a hand to pat Diana's, still on her shoulder. "Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem, darlin'", she smiles and picks her guitar case up, swinging it over one shoulder. "Let's knock his socks off, Lord knows this place could use the kinda money monsters bring in."

Frisk chuckles at that. "I'm pretty sure that's borderline sexual innuendo for them", but the only response that gets is a shrug from Diana, before she bids a quick parting to go set her guitar up, near James.

As alone as possible in the busy backstage, Frisk returns her eyes to the mirror, running her hand through her hair once more. It's going to be a couple minutes until she's needed, not nearly enough time to sneak out for a quick smoke or a glass of anything, so she busies herself with breathing exercises, preparing with the added perk of helping to bring her heart rate down.

To say she's had bad experiences with criminals would be an understatement — but, in this city, who hasn't? Ebott had been plunged into it for years upon years now, and to find someone who hasn't been either involved with the various mob organizations fighting for control over the districts was a rarity, if not an outright miracle. It is worse in Lower Ebott, in the poorer, more heavily monster inhabitated districts, though more _in response_ to them than inherently because of them.

Ways to control the populace, her brother said once, with a kind of anger in his voice that betrayed how utterly unfair he found it.

Monsters, while it was no secret they were involved in shady business themselves, seemed to keep it much "cleaner" than the human mobs did. At least she's never heard of monsters like them giving orders to destroy—

"Sound test, Frisk", a voice called from the front, shaking her from _that_  line of thought. Frisk took a moment to smooth down her dress before walking over to where a man is working on the microphone. He gives a pointed look her way, then slides the stand a little lower.

Doesn't take long at all now, a few more minutes and it's all set to go. Frisk looks over her shoulder, to James with his back turned to the front of the stage — he usually plays looking forward, and she offhandedly wonders if the change was his or Harry's idea —, then to Diana in her high stool, who shoots a wide smile in return.

The lights are turned on, with the accompanying low thrum of magic that powered it up, and the curtain parts. Frisk keeps looking back for a second longer, allowing herself to get used to the bright, too warm spotlights before turning fully forward, a moment before the first note from James' piano rings in the stilted silence of the bar.  
Familiarity goes right the fuck out of the window then, when Frisk meets the eyes of who can just be the "big shot".

Rather, eye sockets.

She almost loses the cue to start, faltering for a fraction of a second while his gaze seems to burn holes in her head.

It's hard to tell, by the way he's sitting on the far back of the dimly lit bar, even if directly in front of the stage, how he's dressed or how he's built. That tells a lot about a person — about a monster. What isn't hard to see, though, with how the light bounces off the pristine white of his head, is that this man is a skeleton.

A skull, rounder and seemingly wider than a human's, with sunken empty eye sockets, a hole for a nose and a wide, toothy grin apparently frozen in place. Frisk sings, the usual tune they start with every two weeks, and he watches her like he couldn't be bothered to look anywhere else. There's a pinpoint of light in the vantablack of his eyes, tiny spots like stars trained on her as she moves, taking the mic from its stand to walk the length of the stage.

Harry is there at his table, she realizes belatedly, pushing a drink in the skeleton's direction. He doesn't look away, just takes the shot glass with a motion of his gleaming white skull, of his black trillby hat.

A shudder goes right through her, and she tears her eyes away from the skeleton man, regarding the rest of her audience with an easy smile on her red lips that is anything but.

Don't look too much, she told herself tersely. He's scoping the place, seeing if it's worth his business, of course he's going to watch the goddamned entertainment. Don't look too much, or he might get offended — she isn't a prejudiced person, and she's going to fucking _show it_ , goddamnit. Diana is right, monsters are a generous sort, their dingy little district needs the money, and heavens forbid she be the one to make the faux pax that's going to ruin what might just as well be their first look in.

Taking a breather during the instrumental solo, Frisk refocuses, rolling her shoulders and tapping the tip of one foot behind her ankle, following the rhythm. Centering back in the spotlight, she sings the rest of the set with relative ease, only meeting the skeleton man's eyes once more — Harry and the head bartender seemingly got his attention, after all, and he's fully turned towards them in conversation.

Without those bright eyelights fixated on her face, she moves and dances with practiced flare, shimmying her hips and turning on her heels, dipping her body and shaking her hair at the right drammatical moments. It's fun, and light-hearted in a way Frisk doubted any other job would be like.

Hours pass, and they had just began the final stretch of their set — a sequence of slow torch songs — when people begin filtering out. At the very front of the stage, there is a small metal container where the patrons would throw some bills for the band, to which Frisk responded with a bow of her shoulders and a blown kiss. It gets filled considerably faster when the patrons get a reaction to doing so — and even if the act seemed to spur some of the more handsy customers on, Frisk was far too glad for the extra few bucks in her purse to truly mind.

As the emotional crescendo of the last song roars to its peak, Frisk draps herself over the side of James' piano with an arm thrown over her head, and a folded leg raised, the sole of her foot flat on the shiny brown surface. There's a couple 'woop' noises from the stragglers, loud and drunk, and Frisk laughed to herself when the music came to an end.

Despite everything, fuck if she didn't adored her job. Even dreaming of actual stages, actual audiences hanging to her every word, this is still hers.

Shooting a smile at James just before the lights go off, Frisk steps away from the piano to pick up her tips as soon as possible, least some drunkard decides it's going to be their last call money.

Too lost in the _usualness_  of this routine, she actually forgot about their honour guest for the night, until it was staring right at her face.

Literally.

Frisk's eyes locked with the lights in the skeleton's dark sockets, and she found herself frozen in place mid-crouch, arm half stretched towards the tip bowl.

She registers several things all at once. 

The light from the nearby bar bounce off the side of the skeleton's face, giving it an eerie reddish tint. He's surprisingly short, and wide — in a way that in a human would betray a strong build, though she's unsure of how that would work in what she assumes is a full bone body. He's dressed _sharp_. A three piece black suit. And he's pulling a handful of thick, heavy golden coins from his pocket.

They fall with a loud clatter in the bowl. His smile seems to widen, somehow, and he puts his — very much skeletal — hand back in his pocket, rolls back on the balls of his feet.

"ain't ya gon' give me a kiss, sweetheart?" He drawls lazily, leaning forward over the edge of the stage. "since i came all the way over, thought i could get a proper one outta ya."

She's staring. Oh, Lord, she's staring, and she's frozen there, and he's getting _c_ _loser_ —

Frisk's body, thankfully, falls into autopilot, and she leans forward the rest of the way to press her lips against the surface of his cheekbone. It's warm. It has a red lipstick stain, now, and the man seems satisfied, if the way he takes a step back instead of pressing is any indication.

"y'all did a great show, there", he doesn't bother breaking eye contact even as he digs through the inside of his suit for a cigar. "can tell 'm gon' be 'round more hopin' to catch ya again", he winks — _winks,_  how does that even _work_? — and finally turns away, lighting the cigar with a snap of his fingers and a burst of blue flame magic.

Frisk breathes. He's flagging Harry down, thick smoke pouring out of his — his mouth? His teeth? And she rushes to collect the money before he decides to come back, making it all the way back to her mirror and chair before she collapses there, flipping the switch on the broken lights on automatic.

Light bounces off the shiny golden coins.

It feels like someone just flipped the switch in her mind's room, moved all the furniture an inch from their original places, and then killed the lights.

She's going to have to get used to this again.


	2. think of me if ever you're afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when you get older  
> your wild heart will live for younger days  
> so think if me if ever you're afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags.

Frisk leaves the bar that Friday, her share of the golden coins and the rest of the tips, plus a bagged dinner courtesy of Harry — "for another amazing night", he said, but she knows by the weight of it that he's thanking for more — tucked safely in her oversized purse, slung across her chest.

Her apartment is a fifteen minute walk, another reason why Harry's has been her favourite place of employment from day one, and it's a safe walk even if the streetlights have, similar to her mirror's, been busted for a long time now.

One would think that magical lights powered by a seemingly endless supply of geothermal magic energy would last forever. Those people most likely didn't live in Lower Ebott, nor on the Ruins district. The actual name of her district is lost to Frisk. It's always been the Ruins, a very fitting — if, admittedly, very unimaginative — name for such a place forgotten by everyone but the criminal organisations.

Frisk walks past the lonely gas station on the corner of her apartment building, the only place that sells a semblance of food at this ungodly hour and isn't a bar. She does stop for a second under the bright green lights, to rummage through her bag for her pack of cigarettes and some change, but upon counting that there's still more than half of it left, she decides to just light one up and let Tomorrow's Frisk deal with buying another.

Her lighter emits a pretty, if dull, green flame. She thinks about the blue flame on the skeleton's fingers and, with some jealously, that time she forgot her lighter and Diana produced a pretty orange flame for her. Amounted to a party trick, and not even that she could manage.

Then again, Frisk thought, blowing off the smoke, maybe having any kind of fire magic wouldn't bid her any good aside from saving some bucks every couple months.

It's a full cigarette's worth of walk then to her building — the ugly little thing facing an old park mostly left to rot —, and she chucks its butt off the sidewalk before getting in.

Her apartment isn't that much better than the outside, having the bare minimum in terms of furniture — the living room is just a couch, a small TV mounted on the wall, and a side table with her phone, with one door to the kitchen and another to the bedroom.

Just the way she liked it.

Frisk puts her purse down on the couch, plopping down and picking up the phone, another lit cigarette in her hand by the time she's done dialing.

It rings thrice.

"Howdy, Frisk", a yawn, and her brother's voice fills the receiver. She smiles, all weariness of the day washing away as a warm feeling floods her very being.

"How d'you know it was me?" She almost giggles.

"Who else would call me at... Four in the goddamned morning? You're lucky I love you, or I'd let you go to voicemail."

"You know I'd just keep calling", she takes a long drag, kicking off her shoes to tuck her legs underneath her body. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Nah", Frisk could almost hear him shrugging. "Can't sleep 'til I know you're safe at home. How was work?"

"... Tell me about yours first."

A pause. "Boring, as usual", there's something clicking faintly in the background. "Travelling for work ain't what people make it out to be, can't wait to be back home."

"Missing the hubby?" Frisk smiles, teasingly. Her brother chuckles.

"Ain't my hubby yet", another pause, more clicking sounds, then a long inhale, a quicker exhale, that she mirrors on her own cigarette. "Missing you too, terribly. How long is it been since I came down to your place?"

"I dunno, four months? I'm still not convinced your in-laws haven't eaten you and all that's left is recordings."

"Far too long, then, time for me to give you some proof of life or whatever", he laughs again. The sound is so nice in her ears — Frisk remembers the time she spent years not hearing it. "How was work tonight?"

His tone is just a bit more serious now, poking but not pressing. He doesn't need to; it isn't like Frisk to hide anything from her brother.

"Harry's opening to monsters now", she breathes in a puff of smoke, pressing the rest of the cigarette into an ashtray. "We got visited by a guy, this skeleton guy. I didn't even know there were skeleton monsters, did you? It's kinda creepy."

There's a longer pause, now. "Skeleton, huh? I have a client like that, at work, as far as I know they're a pretty rare species. Did you happen to catch his name, would be really funny if it were the same guy."

"I didn't, but I doubt it", she sighs. "Unless you've been cutting deals for mobsters in your office. Aren't you breaking client-attorney privacy or something by telling me that info?"

He laughs. "I just gave you the guy's looks, not his entire life story. Telling you if he was a mobster would in fact violate that, I'm pretty sure", another pause, a long sigh. "How's he look like?"

"Like a skeleton", Frisk chuckles at the exasperated noise her brother makes. "Shortie, I guess. Has this really wide smile, but I guess that oughta be all skeleton monsters? Since he got no lips and all. Really weird eyes... Eye holes? That's about it."

"Hm", he makes an odd huffing noise. "Not like who was I thinking."

Silence stretches for a little longer, and Frisk glances at the clock.

"Do you need to—"

"Did he do anything to you?" He cuts abruptly.

Frisk frowns. The guy did approach the stage for a kiss, but he... Wasn't nearly as bad as some of the people she has dealt with since she started performing. He could have demanded she drink with him, or demanded a... Now she's assaulted by the question of if he could even have insisted for a proper kiss — he did lack lips, after all. He could have insisted she kiss his teeth. Or something. Or tried to get her to go home with him, even if she now had to think he probably lacked a lot more than just lips.

"Frisk?" Her brother's voice shakes her out of her own mind, and she clears her throat.

"Sorry. No, he didn't do anything, just came by the stage when the show was done and gave us some gold coins, that's all."

He makes a disgruntled noise. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I gave him a kiss on the cheekbone—", he starts talking, but she keeps going. "—like I'd do for anyone who came up to the stage to tip while I'm getting the jar. I don't need you to cut your trip short to beat anyone up."

His voice is clipped when he replies. "Fine. Keep me posted anyway, would'ya?" Frisk makes a non-committal noise, as if she'd think not to. "I should probably go soon, work bright and early tomorrow."

"I can't believe my own brother, turned so thoroughly into a suit. Disgusting. On a Saturday?"

"Shuddup", he laughs. "Not everyone can afford to live high and glamorous like yourself, star, and I'm meeting a client in the morning."

"Oh, you definitely need to come over", she reaches for another cigarette. "Looks like you forgot the pigsty I live in already."

"Again, shut up. I told you, if you need money—" Frisk grunts with a mouthful of smoke, huffing it out.

"And I told you I'm doing  _fine_. It ain't glamorous, but it ain't being homeless. Keep your dirty lawyer money for the wedding, and go the fuck to bed."

He laughs again, full of warmth, and Frisk is smiling in spite of herself. "Love you too, squirt. Have a great night, alright? Sleep in for me."

"I will. Love you", the line goes silent. Frisk puts down the phone, curling further into her ratty couch, and watching the smoke curl under the light.

This is more of the same rhythm she found herself clinging to, calling her brother after the gigs. Back when they still lived together, when she got her first few, he would stay up until she got back, waiting. Couldn't sleep without knowing she was home, even before  _that_. It's a good thing to get stuck on, if she's honest with herself.

Frisk finishes her cigarette at her leisure, as she didn't have to be up until well into the afternoon for Saturday's job — the only bar off-district she works at —, and she didn't even needed to cook tomorrow. What a beautiful start for the weekend.

Her thoughts are, little by little, consumed with wondering how tonight's events would shape the following weeks. She sinks into the cushions a bit, stretching out her legs, and thinks about the few monsters she interacted with in her life, all of them of some similar cloth as she and her brother. She wonders if any of them will be coming around to the bar, what kind of new people she'll meet come Wednesday, when she's up to sing at Harry's again.

Frisk wonders if the skeleton man will make good on his promise to go there again.

* * *

The first week passes in almost a blink.

Frisk doesn't see any more monsters scouting any of her usual bars — perhaps they want to gauge people's reactions at just the one first, have more control of their territorial expansion. Then again, she doesn't really know how they work, and she isn't at any of them every day of the week, so maybe they have tried but couldn't convince anyone else.

Second week passes as well.

Harry's is now slowly seeing an influx of monsters. Very, very slowly — for the first few days she worked there, it had been just two or three, never for too long at a time.

Strangely enough, so far it had been exclusively dogs to go there.

They're nice. Frisk struck conversation with one of them when she went outside for a smoke, and he'd been fiddling with a lighter not unlike hers. He had a gun strapped in a holster under his leather jacket, that she only got a glimpse at when he made a too big gesture while telling her about some fight his cousin and her husband were having near the bathrooms, and he'd been running away from.

It occurred to Frisk that this should scare her more than it did.

Third week passes.

James quit his job. Didn't say anything to either her or Diana, just up and stopped answering Harry's calls. It ought to be hard finding a new pianist, there weren't many around the district with the kind of money to pay for classes, or to have a piano available to learn by themselves.

Their performance is lacking without him. But he's also a racist prick, so they're ultimately better off without.

"Maybe we oughta ask one of 'em", Diana suggests on Friday night, a beer in hand. They still have half an hour before they need to get ready, and the bar is mostly empty — save for the dog monster Frisk had spoken to last week, and who she thought were his cousin and in-law. "Someone's bound to know a pianist, and wouldn't it be fun to play with a monster?"

Frisk taps her nails on the side of her glass, humming. "Harry already posted the announcement. If they know someone, they're gonna say something", she shrugs. "They might be all swamped working on their own district's bars, though."

"Darlin', be more optimistic. We could make it big, if we were a inter-species band! Imagine that."

" _Or_ we could be thrown out of everywhere, and maybe stoned on the street", Frisk offers with a huff. "And I didn't know we were a band out of Harry's, Di."

Diana shoves her shoulder into Frisk's so hard she almost falls over on the stool, laughing in defence to her realistic views.

A month passes.

The skeleton does indeed man makes good on his promise that first night. Though he never does approach the stage like he did that time, he's always sitting in the same table when the show starts — sometimes with Harry, sometimes with Doggo and the other dog monsters, sometimes by himself —, and he leaves before they're done, leaving some money on the jar and bidding her goodbye with a tip of his hat.

He's part of the rhythm now, and it's not unsettling anymore. He's just another guy in a seedy bar with a gun — she hasn't seen one on him, but it's a safe assumption at this point — and a knack for watching her sing. Like all of the others.

She does call her brother to tell him it's fine. He doesn't seem fully convinced, although Frisk isn't sure why.

A month and two weeks passes.

Frisk just left Harry's. It's four-thirty, a bit later than usual because she stayed behind to have one last drink. There's no leftover food tonight, too much movement since it's just after most people's pay-day, and if  _that_  wasn't good enough, apparently her little magic lighter just ran out of juice.

Disgruntled and a little bit tipsy, Frisk cut the street one block before that of the gas station proper, rummaging through her purse to see if she didn't have one of those shitty cartons of matches. Sometimes she slip some there and forgot about it until they somehow got squished all the way to hell, but it seemed tonight wasn't her lucky night  _at all_ —

"Heey, pretty lady."

The man's voice, low and with the kind of sloppiness to it she'd grown accustomed to working with drunkards, cuts through the quiet night. Frisk freezes, her whole arm shoved in her purse, and looks up.

It's a man, that much is clear. A very well dressed one, too, even if he looks very rumpled. Probably from drinking. His tie is undone, so are the first few buttons on his dress shirt, and his jacket hangs thoroughly wrinkled over his shoulders. He's crossing the street very casually, hands folded behind his back, and Frisk  _knows_  nothing good comes from well-dressed men and young women in empty streets at night, and it's  _dark_  here, right at the spots where the lights have gone out,  _but she can't move_.

"What a pretty lil' thing you are", he coos as he approaches, cocking his head to one side. "I'm glad I caught you outta the bar."

Oh, God no. A fan. She gives him her best smile, backing away very slowly as he walks even closer in.

"Well, sir, I'm just going—", he puts a finger to her lips, bending at the waist. If it's supposed to look less threatening than actually closing in the rest of the distance with his body, it's not working. She's terrified.

"Nah. Lemme make you a better offer for whatever you're plannin' to do tonight", his finger  _lingers_. She wants to vomit. "Why don'tcha come with me? I call us a cab, then drop you off by tomorrow if you want. I could make it worth your while."

Frisk's hands curl around the straps of her purse, and before she can fully comprehend her own reaction, she swings it straight at the man's face. He reels back, clutching a hand to his mouth and cursing under his breath, and she takes the moment to run.

She doesn't go very far.

A loud noise rings in the air, like fireworks. A flash of light and a bang, and her leg burns up in pain as the bullet lodges itself high on her calf. Frisk falls, her purse's contents spilling across the sidewalk. With the surprise and the pain, she can barely catch herself on one arm, her face hitting the gravel. The man keeps cursing, his footsteps getting closer until he puts a feet down on the middle of her back.

"Fuckin' bitch", he grunts. "I make you a nice offer and you fuckin'  _hit me_? Someone shoulda have taught you some goddamned manners."

The pressure on her spine gets heavier when the man leans down. Something cracks — a rib? —, and his hand is on her hair, just one, the other is coming around the side and from the corner of her eye Frisk can see a gun—

"Though for ya, I ain't got time for ungrateful lil' bitches like you."

Frisk squeezes her eyes shut, shaking. She's been so damn lucky so far, so lucky, and luck got her  _spoiled_ , got her  _dumb_ , and now— and now...

There's a bang, a flash of light, and just darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gestures at the violence and major character death tag*
> 
> Shout out to my boy Depp for helping me with the ending. Love you baby <3


	3. i imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when's it gonna get me  
> in my sleep, twenty feet ahead of me?

Frisk wakes up screaming.

Her bedsheets are in a tangle around her legs, drenched in sweat.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, the pulse pounding on her ears so loud she can barely hear her own thoughts. Her chest hurts, her head hurts, and she clutches at her nightshirt like a vice, curling forwards in on herself.

She can't breath, she can't, _can't_  seem to get enough air into her lungs, it comes in short, sudden heaves, getting caught in a lump on her throat — that's what you get from _s_ _moking_ you _stupid asshole_ —, but she's trying, trying so fucking hard because if she's breathing even if she's hyperventilating it means she's not _dead_ —

Frisk kicks the sheets off her legs, throwing herself off of it and stumbling into the adjacent bathroom, falling to her knees on the cold linoleum floor in front of the toilet.

Her free hand latches on to the ceramic, so hard she can faintly hear one of her nails snap, the pain from it a dull thing in the grand scheme of things, and yesterday's dinner, yesterday's drinks, her hopes, dreams and entire sense of self comes out of her mouth and into the water.

It feels like she's there for hours and also no time at all, vomiting for all she's worth until she can breathe again. In and out, her forehead pressed to the toilet seat. In and out, it's cold and it helps center her feverish body in the present, in reality.

This kind of nightmare is the worst. The kind that leaves her empty inside afterwards, reeling from it for days until it starts to fade into nothing.

She hasn't had one of those in months now, almost a year, so far back she can't even remember what the last one was about.

Oh so very slowly, she gets up from the bathroom floor in wobbly legs, fully leaning into the wall least she falls back down. Frisk walks like this past the bedroom, sparing a glance at her bedside clock — it's a quarter past three, at least she could hold on the comfort that this nightmare didn't wake her up earlier than she usually would anyway —, and goes to the living room to drop heavily on the couch.

Her hand is shaking when she picks up the phone, it's worse when she fumbles with dialing the number.

It rings once.

"Frisk?"

She's crying. Since when has she been crying? Honestly she only realizes this fact because when she opens her mouth to reply to her brother all that comes out is a pitiful little whimper. And another one. God, the dream-memory of her mouth full of her own blood, of the pain and the utter nothingness flood her mind so thoroughly, maybe she should have stayed in the bathroom, hugging the damn toilet, because she feels like she's about to vomit again—

"Frisk, talk to me, please", her brother calls again, and she forces herself to anchor in on his voice.

God, Frisk wished he was here. She whimpers again, louder, and it's nearly words this time. He, goddamned saviour he is, understands.

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah", Frisk sobs, curling in on herself, legs up and pressed against her chest.

"Tell me what happened", and tell him she does.

He's not at all silent while she recounts the dream, murmuring reassurances whenever she chokes up too much, whenever she starts spiralling into belittling herself for being afraid even now, awake. He keeps reminding her that she is, in fact, well and alive and it didn't happen, isn't going to happen.

Frisk begins to feel like herself again when she's done.

"Are you going to call tonight's off?" He asks, his tone soft, plaintive. He won't judge her either way, she knows it.

"I—I can't, really", Frisk rubs a hand over her face, groaning. "You know James quit, it's just me and Diana, and I can't leave her and Harry hanging."

He hums. "Alright. You be safe, then. Walk home with someone."

"I don't think it would be better if I asked Diana to come with", Frisk mumbles. She would just force her friend to go all the way back to her bus stop, fifteen minutes the other way.

"Can't you ask Harry or—or, what's the name of the bartender? Alexander? Can't one of them walk you home?"

Frisk pauses, at that.

"I'll... I'll be safe. Don't worry", she runs a hand through her hair, displacing the bangs that got stuck to her forehead due to the sweat.

He stays silent for some odd seconds, and she can hear faintly the sound of him rolling his jaw.

"But it's—it's just a stupid nightmare. Nothing has happened to me so far, I doubt it's going to happen tonight just because of it", she tries to argue, even though both of them know very well this "stupid nightmare" is going to make her paranoid for weeks.

The sound of him gritting his teeth get a bit louder. "Fine", he almost spits out, anger seeping in his voice, and she's stunned for a second. "Fris, I gotta go. Call me when you get home."

"I will", she mutters, still thrown off.

"Take care."

The line goes silent. Frisk stares down at the phone for a while, frowning at it as she puts it back on the receiver. Her brother doesn't get angry. Not at her, not that she's seen.

Frustrated, displeased, worried. Never angry.

Her frown deepens, she didn't even ask if everything was alright with him. Maybe work was being more taxing than he'd told her — and clearly taking care of his still night terrors infested little sister isn't helping.

Frisk really ought to find some company home tonight, if at least not to be another weight on his shoulders.

Feeling more like a human being and less like a loose collection of nerves, she's well enough to actually get up from the couch and go clean up. She walks, still slowly, to the bathroom.

She flushes, then with a cloth, wet from the sink, cleans the remnants of her earlier mess from the toilet seat, the smell almost making her gag again. Her head still hurts, her chest does not.

Frisk turns the shower on, taking the smallest of pleasures from indulging in water hot enough to melt the skin off of her bones, turn her scalp a bright red. Feels like being caressed, and getting every itch scratched at the same time.

Only when the bathroom air is thick with mist, and her skin is warm and red, does Frisk hop off. She takes her time with everything, all her little bathroom rituals.

There aren't many — she's assaulted by a memory of another time, when she was a kid watching her mother lather herself in creams and perfume, and Frisk shakes herself out of it —, but it's good enough to keep her busy.

She dries and brushes her hair slow and deliberately, brushes her teeth twice to get the taste of bile off her mouth, puts the last of the sweet smelling body cream her brother and his fiancé had given on her birthday. The mirror is still foggy, and she runs a towel-covered hand over the surface to look at herself. Frisk takes in the way her skin looks paler, her eyes still rimmed with red, but it's still her. Nothing was wrong.

She wasn't dead.

Frisk leaves for the bedroom, pulling at her clothes in the wardrobe — a tiny little thing with crooked doors and one broken drawer she had to pull all the way off the lower one to rummage through either of them — until she finds a comfortable pair of pants and an old worn sweater, the dress for later at night already hanging from the one not-crooked door. She had... About four more hours to kill until Harry's opened, according to her bedside clock.

Remembering something, she sits down on the couch and examines her nails. The middle finger's on her left hand snapped clean down to the nailbed. What a fucking shame. Her nails were so long and pretty, now she reaches for a file and gets to work on leaving them all the same.

Her brother's words still in her mind and the low scratching noise her nails make on the file, Frisk puts herself to think. She should probably ask one of the boys to take her home, really — were James still working, she could ask for a ride, she's not sure if either Harry or Alex had cars, or if she would put them in the same predicament she'd put Diana. Harry lived above the bar, didn't he? And what good would either of them be if the crazy _fan_  had a fucking _gun_ —

She's crying again. Why is she crying? Frisk rubs the heel of her hand on one eye, frowning at the moisture there. Rubbing at it some more, she grunted in displeasure and stopped thinking about whatever she's going to do at night, least paranoia takes over.

The rest of the afternoon ticks along like molasses, minute dripping on her until the clock turns to 8:30pm and Frisk cannot sit still anymore. Slipping out of her second shower of the day, she ties as much as she can of her short hair into a bun, puts on a modest navy dress and a jacket, grabs the bags with her supplies and the night's clothes, and heads off into the night.

After a very quick power walk — she _is not_ running, because she is not a eight year old child afraid of the dark, thank you very much — Harry's is on full view of Frisk. She takes a moment to admire the dingy concrete walls and heavy iron gates that make up the bar in lieu of catching her breath, noticing he's still just opening, the man himself unfolding chairs to put on the sidewalk outside.

He notices her across the street, and the quizzical look in his face would be funny, if she wasn't just tired, now. Harry waves her down, and she patters over to the bar with what she hoped amounted to a smile on her face.

"Over early", Harry points out, hands on his hips. He looks kinda funny like this, with his crisp white shirt and black suspenders, like something one would see in a photograph of working men. "Wanna help set the place up, or d'ya just want a drink? Sol is at the bar already."

"I'll take a drink, I think", Frisk rubs the back of her neck. "Was bored at home, decided to kill some time. That alright?"

Harry shrugs, goes back to arranging chairs and tables. "Sure thing, doll. Just don't go getting yourself too drunk before the show, aight?"

"Can do", she calls over her shoulder, already walking over to the bar.

'Sol', one of the other bartenders, is actually called Solomon, and he is a beautiful bear of a human being. Tall and imposing and nothing like the more lithe (but no less intimidating when he so wishes to be) head bartender, Alexander. He smiles broadly when Frisk approaches, before turning his back like it's a practiced dance, and pulling a heavy cut glass and a bottle of whiskey from within the counter. She sits on a stool, leaning forwards on her elbows.

"Starting early today, are we?" He cracks at her, pouting the liquid in. This man has put her at ease from the first day she stepped foot in this little shady bar, and she's caught thinking if she should ask _him_  to accompany her home.

Frisk, however, is rudely interrupted from that line of thought by a rumbling voice behind her.

"care to make that two, pal?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _pterodactyl noises_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I can't say how much I'm happy for all the comments and kudos you guys have been leaving me! I don't even know how to respond to that without it just being loud keysmashes.
> 
> Also I know that last cliffhanger was unfair so here have another absolutely unfair one, because the chapter decided to cut itself off here.


	4. drink, this one's on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we're all chained to the rhythm

Sans was rudely awake from his midday nap by the worst of all sounds — a ringing phone. He grumbled, unwilling to leave the wonderful edge between sleep and full awareness, and eventually it stopped.

And started up again.

He grumbled _louder_ , rubbing one hand over the side of his skull, and pulled himself up to his feet slowly. Due to the silence in the house, aside from the fucking phone blaring itself to all hell, he surmised Papyrus had gone out already. A cursory glance at the clock on the wall — almost five in the afternoon — only confirms Sans' suspicion.

Walking very slow and deliberately serves him to miss that call, and he drops himself heavily on the chair next to the phone. It is going to ring again. Ain't his usual "work hours", so whoever the hell is calling should know better than expect him of all people to pick up so damn fast. He manages to snag a cigarette from the crumpled up pack abandoned on the coffee table before it does ring again.

"whazzit?" He grumbles into the receiver, balancing the whole thing between his skull and clavicle to light up his smoke.

"Afternoon, Sans", comes Toriel's voice — prim and proper and all business, his demeanour lighting up for a fraction of a second before he recognizes the tone and it falls again.

"hey, tori. whatcha got for me?" Sans holds the phone back in his hand, absently scratching at his mandible.

She sighs. "Are you still frequenting the human bar we have secured in the Fairbanks?"

"the ruins? yup. gonna go there later tonight", he keeps scratching, down his sternum. He really needs to wash this goddamned undershirt, it's itchy as all hell. "why, somethin' happen?"

"No, no, we have had no incidents there. Nothing like that", there's voices in the background, low and urgent. Toriel makes a shushing noise, they stop. "I want you to scout someone for us."

"some _one_?" Sans raises a brow bone, chuckling into the receiver. "that's new."

"I am aware. Usually we would ask Papyrus—", more voices, she excuses herself for a moment to speak with them while he tries not to be overly offended by that remark. Papyrus is far better than he could ever hope to be with your regular humans, and to be fair, he's literally the best. And the less taxing work given, the better it is for Sans.

Toriel is back in a minute or so, the voices in the background completely gone now. "Sorry. As I was saying—"

"i know. pap's busy, i got the recon on the place, yadda yadda. who's the guy?"

She clears her throat. "The singer, Frisk."

Well, that's unexpected. Sans rolls the butt of his cigarette between his phalanges.

"can i ask what's she got to do with us?"

"We— mostly myself, been thinking that it could be good for our work if we had more human performers in monster-run establishments", she makes an odd noise — as if even though it was 'her idea', she either didn't fully buy it, or she was hiding something. Sans keeps rolling the (now all gone) cigarette. "From preliminary research she seems to be very friendly. Doggo has reported they have spoken several times over the course of that particular bar being open, and by your brother's account you have been going there exclusively on the days she presents, which talks lengths about her talent in itself that you would bother."

"gotcha. nice gal, not racist, good singer. good first try if it lands", he nods, choosing not to comment further on his new habits (and what he bothers or doesn't to do). "aight, i'mma keep an eye socket out for her. anything else?"

"No, that is all. Thank you, Sans."

"no problem, boss. later", he doesn't wait for a reply (it's probably not coming anyway), and ends the call.

With another look at the clock, and one last scratch to his sternum (fucking damn it, how long has he been wearing this shirt?), Sans gets up to get started for the night.

* * *

 

Sol is smiling at the newcomer, easy and maybe a little fond. He says something, but it doesn't quite register with Frisk, who's in turn frozen still on her stool for all of a minute.

The now-familiar skeleton man drops himself heavily on the stool next to hers, chuckling at whatever Solomon said, a deep, rumbling sound that she can almost feel from the way their shoulders nearly touch in the small space. When she does manage to tear her eyes away from the front of the bar and to him, two things register first.

One, that he truly was a short one. His eyelights are level with her own eyes, and he seems to be watching her watch him, maybe with interest, maybe with amusement. It's hard to tell, considering his face is stuck in a permanent wide grin.

Two, that while he's dressed as sharp as every time she's seen him — a nice pressed blue dress shirt and a dark suit that he fills nicely even though the _hows_  of it still elude Frisk, since as far as she knows he is by all means a bunch of bones —, the collar of his jacket has moved at some point and she can see a peek of a shoulder holster strap. Not the gun itself, just the strap, and it's enough to send her spiralling down into near hyperventilation.

Make that three things, because even if his mouth doesn't open, doesn't _move_ , really, she can feel through the barest point of contact between them the rumble of his voice. He's speaking. To her. And she's not listening.

He seems to notice, because then he snaps his fingers in front of her face, effectively robbing her attention from deep within her own mind.

"you doin' okay there, kiddo?" He asks, half laughing. There's an undertone there, but she can't quite pin on what it is. "lookin' like you've seen a corpse or somethin'."

That fully snaps Frisk out. Something in his inflection makes her think that this was supposed to be a joke. What the hell. His eyelights are still fixed on her, as if searching for recognition for his effort — if this was a joke, what an absolute shit one it had been —, for a moment before he turns to the bar and chuckles.

"d'ya mind some company? place's a ghost town right now", Frisk doesn't quite get what he's asking, until her eyes meet Sol's — his pleasant smile a facade for his willingness to throw out the monster should his presence be unwanted, or unpleasant in any way.

Honestly, in this line of work Frisk is so much more used to men forcing their presence upon her that someone actually asking if it is wanted is... Jarring, to say the least.

The whole spiel her brother goes in sometimes about how monster are, almost inherently, better than humans is starting to dawn on her, now.

"It's fine", she tells both the skeleton and Sol, who nods curtly and returns to polishing glasses. The grip on her glass relaxes — she wasn't even aware that her hand had curled around it like a claw —, and she takes a sip. "You just startled me, that's all. Didn't think anyone would be here so early."

He seems pleased from getting a response, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. Frisk takes note that he hasn't moved closer, in fact, he seems to be keeping himself a very respectable distance if not for the fact they are siting right next to each other.

"had nothin' to do, thought i'd swing by", he shrugs, taking a sip from his glass — a glance to the side reveals that he *doesn't* open his mouth to do so, which is a bit disturbing —, and leans on both elbows on the counter. "i gotta say, if comin' 'round early lands me drinkin' with a lovely lil' bird such as yerself, i might do it more often."

He winks. Frisk is still baffled by how the hell he can manage that, like bone sliding over more bone, so much so that the flirtatious tone goes right over her head. At least she has the presence of mind not to ask about it, instead taking a moment of silence.

"so", he goes after a minute of so of companionable drinking. "been watchin' ya for a while, but i still haven't caught your name."

She swirls her mostly empty glass for a beat. "I'm Frisk. Frisk Mendoza. And you...?"

"name's sans. sans the skeleton", a movement from the side makes Frisk turn, to see that so has he, and now he has one hand out towards her. "nice to finally meetcha, kid."

Frisk stops and looks at his hand — smooth, greyish white bone, all of it, though it did look far more like a human hand than what little knowledge she had of bone anatomy from school —, and tears her eyes away when he starts laughing.

"i ain't gonna bite ya", Sans wiggles his fingers, his grin impossibly wider. She takes his hand.

He, faster than she thought he'd be, turned it over and pulled gently to press his teeth to the back in what one could consider a kiss, a faint *something* thrumming at the point where his cool, smooth bone met skin. As fast as he took it, he let go, leaning back with his hand now into his pants' pockets.

"—'less ya ask nice", he winks, and Frisk goes dead silent.

Frisk quickly folds her hands on her lap and gathers her wits. This flirting is the kind of thing she should be used to by now — if asked, she'd say she's used to much worse —, but somehow she feels very flustered.

Sans, on the other hand, seems just painfully amused, if the way he's chuckling against the edge of his glass is any indication.

"just pullin' yer leg, canary", he laughs, and the uneasiness filters out the slightest bit as she nervously joins in.

It takes another beat, and he flags Solomon over. There's now some patrons filtering in, and some of the other staff. Takes the man a moment to wrangle himself away from serving beer to get to their side of the bar.

"pal, can ya get us an ashtray? and a refill for the lady" he nods, pulls a heavy metal thing from under the counter, pours her another drink — Frisk hadn't noticed hers was gone —, and leaves. Sans rummages through his pocket, and pulls out a pack. Frisk doesn't recognize the brand. He takes one thin cigarette, sticking it between his teeth somehow, then turns the open pack her way. "ya smoke?"

Frisk is already thumbing one out. "Not this kind, but thanks", she examines it for a moment, rolling the cigarette between her fingers. The paper has a green tint to it, funnily enough, same as what she assumed was tobacco inside. "Is this...?"

"regular stuff, ain't gonna offer ya drugs. they're fuckin' expensive", his voice doesn't sound muffled at all, even though he's got one hand over his mouth, the other producing a bright blue flame to light the tip of his cigarette. "never had monster smokes?"

"Can't say I have", she keeps on watching him smoke instead of moving for her lighter, the smoke escaping from between his teeth a slightly green tinted, thick apparition. "How is it different?"

"better on fleshy lungs", Sans shrugs. "or so i've heard, ain't exactly got those", he taps on his chest with a rumbling chuckle, the tips of his fingers making a dull hollow noise as it seemingly reverberates inside his... Ribcage? 

Instead of asking how the  _hell_ that works for him if he doesn't have lungs — or, the thought comes unbidden, does he have them but they're somehow made of bone? That is somehow worse than the alternative —, Frisk just begins rummaging through her purse for the lighter, grumbling to herself when he doesn't seem to locate it.

Sans taps her shoulder, making her look back at him. "lemme get that for ya."

His hand is still illuminated by the blue flame, and she has to admit it's a pretty sight. Looks more saturated than the green ones Diana can make, and she bends forward to meet him in the middle, puffing at the filter for a few moments until it had time to light up.

"Thanks", she says in a huff of greenish smoke, the aftertaste of it lingering on her tongue. It tastes... Funny. Like tobacco but softer, somehow. Doesn't burn her throat as bad as the usual does, so she gets what he said about being better on the lungs. "'s nice."

"told ya", he gives her a shrug, and returns to his own drink.

It's silent between them for a little longer, until she's done with both her cigarette and the rest of her whiskey. Now the bar is fuller, and Frisk has spotted Diana getting into the backstage some time ago. They must be setting up already, which means her "break" is all but done already. She takes the small comfort that, apparently, being near the monster has prevented all other interactions she would usually have if she'd been seated at the bar by herself, so it  _was_ more of a break than she'd get on a normal day.

She kinda needed that, honestly.

"So, Sans", Frisk clears her throat, the skeleton turning to meet her eyes. "Thanks for the company, but I need to get going."

"nah, sweetheart. thank _ya_  for indulging me with yours", he tilts his head to the side, fingertips tapping at the glass in his hand. "dun worry 'bout the drinks, i'll take care of 'em. ya go work yer magic upstage."

He makes a dismissive hand motion, though with the way he's smiling — and looking — at her, it feels more friendly than actually dismissive. Frisk thanks him again, and leaves.

All the initial uneasiness that she felt when getting to Harry's now forgotten, she doesn't even pay attention to the pair of eyes following her path from the bar to the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheezes softly
> 
> Sorry about taking so long to update. I wasn't really happy with this chapter (still think it's kind of weak), but I also don't know how to improve it anymore, so here you go.
> 
> No big cliffhangers this time? I think? Sans is surprisingly not a dick, yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first proper fanfic, starting 2019 with a very, very scary bang. All criticism is welcomed and encouraged.
> 
> Tags are going to be updated as I go, because I don't want to give too much of what I have off just yet (also so I can change my mind easier and not feel like a dirty liar). 
> 
> Inspired by Staringback's "Sooner or Later You're Gonna be Mine", and Neroli9's "A Puzzle Just For Me".


End file.
